


I Know, I Know It's Serious

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post Avengers, pre-Agents of SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after the Battle of New York, Clint will take what he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know, I Know It's Serious

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for Clint being very sad and non-graphic medical situations.

Rogers is sitting with Phil this time, when Clint pushes the door open. That’s better than it being Stark, who always likes to talk, but worse than Banner, who’ll usually just nod and slip out.

“You’re done early today,” Rogers says, standing up.

Clint puts his hand on the back of the vacated chair, like he’s going to take Rogers up on the offer to sit down, like he’s not just waiting for him to leave so he can crawl onto the bed and lie very, very still for a good long time.

“Yeah.” Clint’s so tired, he’s swaying. It’s only mid-afternoon, but he feels like he’s been awake for a month. “Last day.”

Rogers purses his lips, looks solemn. “How did it go?”

“Fucking awful,” Clint says, since that’s how every day has been since the WSC decided they needed a formal enquiry into the shitstorm that was New York. “But it’s over.”

Rogers smiles and reaches over, clapping Clint on the shoulder. He’s a nice guy, goes out of his way to try to include Clint in stuff when no one - especially not Clint - would blame him for doing the opposite.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he says, nodding at the bed and Phil. “Come to the Tower tonight? Stark’s planning some sort of bonding night.”

“Sure,” Clint says and it’s a lie, but Rogers knows it’s a lie, so Clint doesn’t really feel bad. “Thanks for sitting with him.” He knows they don’t do it for him, but Phil can’t thank them himself.

“It’s always a pleasure,” Rogers says then nods at Clint and again at the bed and lets himself out.

“That guy is a fucking delight; I know why you want to bone him so bad,” Clint says, kicking off his dress shoes.

Phil breathes steadily in and out, the life support machine buzzing faintly the way it always does.

“I know, I know.” Clint hangs his jacket over the back of the visitor’s chair (it’s Phil’s jacket, Clint borrowed it for luck, so he can’t let it get creased). “You don’t want to bone him; you just admire him. Whatever. I get that too.”

Phil keeps breathing, skin pale and eyelashes dark on shadowed cheeks.

“Shove over a bit, okay,” Clint says, moving Phil’s arm out from his side and slipping under it, tucking himself against the warm line of Phil’s side, only the thin hospital blanket between them. He puts his head on Phil’s chest - right side, far away from all the bandages - and drapes Phil’s arm around him.

He knows that this is potentially a little creepy, but he also knows that Phil wouldn’t mind, that Phil will wake up and be really upset that he wasn’t there for Clint during all the stupid, endless days of questioning, of WSC bullshit, of finding new ways to say _yes I remember everything Loki did and no I couldn’t stop him_. 

“We’re finally done,” he tells Phil, eyes on the angle of Phil’s jaw, the buttoned collar of his pyjama shirt, all the bits that are normal. “Guess you’re gonna be stuck with me here way more than before.” He rubs his fingers over the blanket where it’s stretched across Phil’s chest. He likes feeling it go up and down with Phil’s breaths. “Unless they cart me off to jail, but Fury doesn’t think they will.”

He presses closer, resists the urge to curl a leg over Phil’s thighs the way he used to, just in case he somehow manages to hurt him. It’s been two months and no change and Clint doesn’t want to risk setting him back even one day.

Clint closes his eyes. He’s so tired. “Sorry,” he says, swallowing down a yawn. “You mind if I have a five minute nap? I promise I’ll be entertaining after.”

Phil doesn’t answer. But he’s warm and Clint can hear him breathing, hear the monitors that are telling him Phil’s heart’s beating, and it’s soothing. It wouldn’t have been two months ago, when this started and Clint spent hours apologising and begging Phil to wake up, but Clint’s gone somewhere else in his brain now; he’s accepting shit for what it is and he’ll take what he can get.

***

Doctors and nurses come in every now and then and tsk at Clint, but they’re SHIELD and they’re used to him, so they check Phil’s vitals then leave.

Sitwell pokes his head in, tries to get Clint to step out for a coffee. Clint closes his eyes and pretends he didn’t see him.

Fury comes in. Clint doesn’t know what he says. He’s too tired to care.

Finally, there’s peace and finally, he falls asleep.

***

He wakes up groggy and stiff, muscles aching in a way that means he’s been stuck in one position for a long time. He lifts his head, can’t find a clock, and sinks back down.

“Oh hey, is Sleeping Beauty awake?” asks a voice which can only belong to Tony Stark.

Clint groans and presses his face into Phil’s shoulder. He’s not in the mood for whatever it is Stark wants.

“Sorry, I’m not coming to your bonding party thing,” Clint says. He can’t see Stark, which means he’s behind him, which is an asshole move, but Clint really doesn’t want to turn around.

Stark barks a short laugh. “You missed it,” he says, “and then some.”

Clint doesn’t want to ask. He wants to close his eyes and fall back to sleep, where he can dream that they’re back at home and Phil’s asleep because he wants to be. “Go away, Stark,” he says.

He doesn’t care anymore. The inquiry is over; there’s no where he has to be. Fury’s never going to let him out in the field again. He can just stay here with Phil.

“Oh my god,” Stark says, stalking around the bed, heels clacking on the floor. He leans down - over Phil - so he’s staring Clint right in the face. “This has got to stop. When I’m calling people out on being self-absorbed, you know you’ve got a problem, but - ”

“Move back,” Clint says. He doesn’t recognise his own voice.

“Listen - ”

“Move the fuck back.” Clint doesn’t care about Stark getting in his face, but his jacket is brushing Phil’s cheek. It’s like Phil’s not there, like he’s just another part of the bed, not a person, anymore.

Stark freezes. Clint thinks that he’s finally scared him and is caught between satisfaction and overwhelming guilt, but then Stark straightens up, eyes very wide. “Barton,” he says softly, “look.”

Clint looks where Stark’s pointing, down at Clint’s hip where Phil’s hand’s been lying since Clint put it there. “What?” he starts to ask but then he sees it. 

Phil’s fingers are curled in Clint’s belt loop. Clint didn’t do that.

Clint goes as still as Stark did, then very, very slowly looks up at Stark’s face. Stark looks like he’s nearly as excited-and-or-terrified as Clint is.

“Phil?” Clint breathes, pushing up on one hand and looking down at him. “Hey, sir, you in there?”

He expects Stark to join in, to make some crack at Phil, but he stays quiet. So does Phil. His chest moves up and down, just like before, and there’s no hint from his face that anything’s changed.

But his fingers are gripping Clint’s belt loop, index finger rubbing back and forth across the denim in tiny twitches, and that’s really all Clint needs to see. It’s a start.

/End

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from 'Girlfriend In A Coma', sorry.


End file.
